The Lost Boy

understand the purpose of her new game. Suddenly I realize that this is no game. It takes a few seconds for me to understand that this is my chance – my chance to escape. I’ve wanted to run away for years, but some invisible fear kept me from doing it. But I tell myself that this is too easy. I so badly want to move my legs, but they remain rigid.
    “
Well?” Mother screams into my ear. “It’s your choice.” Time seems to stand still. As I stare down at the carpet, I can hear Mother begin to hiss. “He won’t leave.
The Boy
will never leave.
It
hasn’t the guts to go.”
    I can feel the inside of my body begin to shake. For a moment I close my eyes, wishing myself away. In my mind I can see myself walking through the door. I smile inside. I so badly want to leave. The more I envision myself walking through the door, the more I begin to feel a warmth spread through my soul. Suddenly, I can feel my body moving. My eyes pop open. I look down at my worn-out sneakers. My feet are stepping through the front door.
Oh my God,
I say to myself,
I can’t believe I’m doing this!
Out of fear, I dare not stop.
    “
There, ” Mother triumphantly states.
“The Boy
did it. It’s his decision. I didn’t force him. Remember that, Stephen. I want you to know I didn’t force him.”
    I step through the front door, knowing full well that Mother will reach out and yank me back in. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I quicken my pace. After stepping past the door, I turn right and walk down the red steps. From behind me I can hear the sounds of Mother and Father straining themselves as they lean outside. “Roerva, ” Father says in a low voice, “this is wrong.”
    “No!” she replies in a flat voice. “And remember, it was his decision. Besides, he’ll be back.”
    I’m so excited that I nearly trip on my own feet and stumble down the stairs. I grab on to the handrail to stabilize myself. I make it to the walkway, and I fight to control my breathing. I turn right and walk up the street until I’m sure no one can see me past The House, then I break into a run. I make it halfway up the street before stopping, only for a moment, to look back down at The House.
    With my hands on my knees I bend down panting. I try to strain my ears for the sounds of Mother’s station wagon. Somehow, Mother’s letting me go seems all too easy. I know she’ll be after me in a few moments. After catching my breath, I again quicken my pace. I reach the top of Crestline Avenue and stare down at the small green house. But there’s no station wagon racing out of the garage. No one running after me. No yelling, screaming or hitting. I’m not sitting at the bottom of the stairs in the garage, not being beaten in the back of the knees with a broomstick and not getting locked in the bathroom with another concoction of ammonia and Clorox.
    I spin around at the sound of a passing car. I wave.
    Even though I’m wearing ragged pants, a torn, thin, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of worn-out tennis shoes, I feel happy inside. I’m warm. I tell myself I’m never going back. After years of living in fear, surviving torturous beatings and eating out of garbage cans, I now know I will somehow survive.
    I have no friends, no place to hide, nothing to turn to. But I know exactly where I’m going – the river. Years ago, when I was a member of The Family, for every summer vacation we would drive up to the Russian River in Guerneville. The best times in my life were the days spent learning to swim at Johnson’s Beach, riding down the Super Slide, going on hayrides at sunset and playing with my brothers on the old tree stump by our cabin. Remembering the smell of the giant redwood trees and the beauty of the dark green river makes me smile.
    I’m not sure exactly where Guerneville is, but I do know it lies north of the Golden Gate Bridge. I’m sure it will take me a few days to get there, but I don’t care. Once I’m there I can survive by stealing loaves of French bread and salami from the local Safeway supermarket, and sleep on Johnson’s Beach while listening to the sounds of the cars rumbling across the old evergreen Parker truss bridge that leads into the city. Guerneville was the only place I ever felt safe. Ever since I was in kindergarten, I knew it was where I wanted to live. And once I make it there, I know I will live in Guerneville for the rest of my life.
    I begin walking down Eastgate Avenue when a cold chill